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Delisile is a native of Swaziland (Southern Africa) now residing in Boston Massachusetts. She is a performance poet, writer and artist. Performing regularly at the Lizard Lounge and Cantab Lounge since 2002, as well as various other poetry joints in the area. She was the slam Champion of Champions three seasons in a row at the Cantab until she forfeited her title at the end of 2003 when she took a hiatus from the slam scene to work on her other creative adventures. In 2002 and 2003 she was a member of the Boston Lizard Lounge Slam Team that attended the National Poetry Slam. During the 2003 National Slam in Chicago she ranked third in the individual competition out of over 200 poets, nation wide. In 2004 she was nominated by Cambridge Poetry Awards for Outstanding Slam Female and Performance Poet of the Year.
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I Write
I stitch these words like knitting yarn,
And I stitch and I stitch,
And I have to go on.
I stitch and I stitch,
And damn it! My needle broke
But I have to go on
So I cut myself and pluck out a rib
And wind the yarn around and around
Blood stain patterns on my creation
But I have to go on
Have to go on
So I stitch and I stitch
And the words stream
Like masses trying to stampede through the doorways of a burning building.
Feet stomping, Arms thrashing.
Kick Bite Fight Scream Push Shove,
And the words stream.
Barraging my mind.
Drowning my brain.
And today someone at work said they should kill Arafat,
That is the answer they said, to this whole problem they said.
And the same person said in reference to colonialism that the British helped a lot of people.
What?
In reference to colonialism he said the British helped a lot of people.
What!?
In reference to colonialism he said the British helped a lot of people.
And no!
I will not ask him what he means.
The words are rattling at the bars of their cage in my brain.
And no!
I will not ask him what he means.
Because those words will come crashing through.
And I cannot control what damage they will do.
And the bus driver on my way to school told that guy to go back where he came from.
And my husband pissed me off this morning and I don’t know how to tell him why I’m angry.
And I don’t know how to tell him that I love him.
And I don’t know how to tell him that I need.
And I’m sorry.
So I continue to knit and weave and stitch,
But still I feel myself slipping into insanity as these voices in my head
Remind me about the demons that want my brothers dead
These drug dealing, war wielding, soul stealing demons
But we as a people are still blind to the diseconomies of division
And I broke down and cried, almost drowned in the futility of my tears
When he asked me: “how could they do what they did to us?”
I tried to answer but my mouth was empty in ignorance
In that moment I was found guilty of failing to feed hope to a hungry heart
So the pages from the book of Revelations
Detached themselves from Biblical reality to join me in this state of insanity
Laminating themselves to my skin
Mummifying my living body as punishment for my sins
So now I try to find redemption by praying in ink
Bleeding my need for humanity on paper
Bleeding my need for love on paper
Bleeding my need to be freed
But this pain is deep and hard
And I have tried and failed
To loose it in the arms of lovers who continue to break my heart
So instead I knit and weave and stitch
Getting lost in the intricacies of words blending together.
And no matter how fast,
No matter how much,
No matter how long
I write,
It’s never enough.
Somehow this garment I create is not sufficient to hold this beast,
And word limbs stick out everywhere:
Crying babies, dying mothers, massacre, disaster, political fiasco, tirade, corruption, pollution, internal destitution, distortion of visions, black heroes dying, no one to replace them, drugs, guns, children on crutches, broken, disillusioned, misplaced minds, eyes search for my reaction…
And you ask me why I write,
You ask me why I stitch,
You ask me what it does for me.
I could tell you that I write to try and ease the pain.
I could tell you that I write to try and reach another realm.
I could tell you that I write to keep from going mad.
I could tell you that I write in the hope of being felt.
But damn it! Can’t you see?
I write
Because
It saves
Me.
